


In Hell I'll Be In Good Company

by Half_PintGladiator



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Western, Angel (Borderlands) Lives, Eventual Romance, Eye Trauma, F/F, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Life Debt, Other, Suicide reference, Violence, ambiguously bisexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27778882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Half_PintGladiator/pseuds/Half_PintGladiator
Summary: Lynchwood is a small mining town caught between the wilds of the borderlands and the territory of coal magnate "Handsome Jack" St. Clair. It's a town clawing for survival, haunted by secrets. Sheriff Nisha Kadam has her share of skeletons in the closet, some coming back to threaten the tiny town.
Relationships: Nisha/Scarlett (Borderlands)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Troubles by the Score

**Author's Note:**

> A rehashing of the original posted on Tumblr. Periodic slow updates as my schedule permits.

Lynchwood was not yet a ghost town. It held onto life as one did in the harsh desert. The mines were not yet barren and work was steady, but so many were drawn to the promises of Opportunity far to the West. Those that stayed were a hearty bunch, prone to trouble. In short, it was her kind of town. 

The setting sun gleamed off her shiny sheriff’s badge, glowing like the ember of her cigarette. She did one last patrol of the town on horseback. Her black steed kept a steady pace. She liked the quiet hours, where the town was the most peaceful. The last train of the night had already rattled through, bringing them nothing, not even hope. It was a harsh world out on the borderlands. The only thing holding it together was the law. 

The moon had risen fully by the time her horse trotted up to the old mansion. She had stopped a few times along the path to ensure she wasn’t tailed. Not a soul could know about her trips. 

The house had been built of the finest imported woods, styled in a sharp gothic look. She thought it was opulent as all hell. And gaudy. The wrought iron gate was tall as two men, with bars spaced tightly enough that no man or child could slip between the bars. 

Nisha dismounted, pulling keys from her duster’s pockets. The old gate swung open with a creak. Her horse was surprisingly still despite the noise. One last glance over her shoulder. Nothing but empty desert and pale moonlight. 

She left her steed to wander the grounds of the mansion. He could take care of himself, but mostly he was content to graze on the scraps of grass. The night was clear, the air not yet frigid. It was going to be a long, hot summer. Full of fights. 

Sighing, she stepped up to the patio. She hated coming out this far away from town. Hated the implications of each visit. She braced herself as she stepped in.

The foyer was papered with expensive flowery yellow wallpaper. A large portrait hung over a fireplace, a gash through the canvas. There weren’t nearly as many cobwebs as she anticipated. This time, her boots didn’t leave a trail through the dust on the floor. If anything, it was cleaner than she had ever seen the place. 

Nisha mounted the stairs, keeping her weight on the edge of each step to avoid making a sound. Her heart thudded dully in her chest. Her fingers danced over the handrail, made of polished oak. She hated everything about the manse. The wealth, the overabundance of detail and waste. 

The hallways were seemingly endless in the gloom of night. Only a handful of lanterns were lit, all strategically placed away from windows. She reached the last door.

She shut her eyes. Letting out a slow breath, she tapped on the door.

“Come in.” A thin, feminine voice drifted on the still air. 

She swung the door open and found a young woman bundled in blankets, her pale face almost skeletal. Her light blue eyes were still lively. 

“Hey, kid. How’re you holdin’ up?”

“I’m doing better. Timothy says I’m getting stronger.”

“Where’s ol’ Tim anyway?”

“He had something at the mine to work on, but he should be home soon.”

“You think he’s doin’ alright?”

“No one can tell he’s not--” The girl cut herself off, eyes clouding, darkening the shadows under her eyes.

Nisha rested her hand on the girl’s thin arm. 

“Angel, he’s gone now, he can’t hurt you.”

“I know. I just… I hate that Timothy looks like him. They’re not the same, but…”

“Yeah, I know. I shoulda killed him before it got that bad.”

She lowered herself on the bed next to the girl. Angel leaned against her. They sat together in silence. Angel’s small hand wrapped around two of her fingers in a loose grip. When she tired of the contact, Nisha dug in her duster’s pockets, pulling out a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and twine.

“Got you a little somethin’ when I was in town last. Winger’s goin’ over to Opportunity soon, so if you’ve got any requests, let me know.”

Angel’s pale hands ghosted over the package. It took her a few tries to get the knot out of the twine. Nisha watched her with something akin to affection. The kid might as well have been her daughter. Angel was silent as she considered the book in her hands. Her face lit up in a smile that threatened to melt Nisha’s heart. She couldn’t have anyone knowing how soft she was toward the kid. 

“I love it, thank you! I don’t think I need anything, but I’m sure Timothy might have a few requests. He’s been in over his head.”

“I’ll send him a telegram tomorrow. Now, if you need anything, you just send me a line and I’ll be here soon as I can.”

“Of course, Nisha.”

Nisha leaned over the girl, pressing her lips to her forehead.

“Yer fever’s gone.”

Those pale eyes, underlined by deep bags were so full of life, of pain. Nisha couldn’t fight back the smile even as she rose from the bed.

“Told you I’m getting better.”

“Now you take care, kid. I’ll be back at the end of the week unless you need somethin’.”

Nisha paused in the doorway, giving Angel one last glance.

“Be careful out there, Nisha.”

“I will, kid.”

She started to pull the door closed behind her. A weight had settled in over her heart; this was her debt, her albatross. 

“I love you, Nisha.”

She hesitated, nearly catching her own heel with the door. She smiled despite her best effort.

“Love you too, Angel.”

Nisha saw herself out of the mansion. As she went to lock the door, a man sidled up to her. He looked weary and disheveled, but she recognized him immediately. It was hard not to recognize the sharp angles of his face and the single streak of grey in his brown hair. She tipped her hat.

“Tim.”

“Nisha.”

They both bore the weight of the Baron’s death and the legacy he left behind. She imagined that she carried more of the weight. After all, his blood was on her hands. Timothy just happened to be a nearly perfect doppelganger of the Baron. He inherited the wealth, the power. The sick daughter that Jack had poisoned. But Nisha also carried the brunt of that. 

\--  
She rode silently back into town, mind clouded with her thoughts. There had been pressure from another posse, folks Jack had branded bandits and monsters. But she had learned differently. How she had ever loved a man that cruel was beyond her. Now she had to work her way out of his shadow. It never got easier. 

Only one light was left burning in the Sheriff’s office. Winger had lit her lamp for her. He usually lit the lamp to her rooms before he left for the night. He didn’t have far to go and seemed guilty to leave his boss in the dark. Not that she minded, she did her best thinking in the dark stillness of the jailhouse she called home. 

Horse stabled, she made her way to the front door. A rustle of fabric made her stop, keys in hand.

“Out rather late, aren’t we, Sheriff?”

“Ma’am?”

Nisha turned. The woman in question still wore a corset. And breeches. Many had considered her the town weirdo, a fop in a new age. Her vivid red hair almost glowed under lamplight.

“Catching nefarious ne’er-do-wells?” 

“Uh, not particularly, Miss Scarlett.”

It was rather well-known through Lynchwood that Scarlett was referred to as Captain, owing to her claim of having been a pirate before coming out west. The only credit to that was her eyepatch and pegleg. Only Nisha seemed to get away with calling her ‘miss’. 

“Hm, then it’s rather odd. I did not see you at the saloon, nor were you at your usual haunts.”

“You need somethin’, Miss Scarlett?”

Her one good eye, silver as the moon on a dark night glittered. Nisha was torn between an urge to give the woman a good slug across the face or kiss her; she never could seem to decide.

“Oh, me? Never, I was just checking in on our estimable Sheriff, that’s all.”

“Well, you have yourself a good night.”

Nisha punctuated her statement by closing the door in Scarlett’s face. The woman was trouble. Trouble that made her sweat under her vest and made it awful hard for her to sleep at night. She was an odd duck, but seemed to know all the goings-on in town. 

And after that encounter, she had a good feeling she wasn’t going to get any rest that night.


	2. Ain't No Rest

The thing about being a sheriff of a small town was that it wasn’t all big cattle rustling jobs or stopping bank robberies. More often than not, Nisha found herself responding to calls of bar brawls or petty thievery. She had grown used to these small, nuisance jobs though her younger self would have balked at the idea of keeping the peace. If anything, the little brawls made her life a tiny bit more interesting. In this case, a tad too interesting.

Ellie, the beekeeper's daughter, came barging into her office, pretty blonde hair a mess. The girl was hardly sixteen and filling out nicely-- Nisha had seen some of the menfolk giving her the eye. Nisha had all but closed up for the night, resting with her feet up on the desk, an unlit cigarette perched between her lips. 

“Sheriff, momma needs you to come break up a fight.”

“Who’s drunk this time?”

“Strangers, ma’am. Ain’t never seen the likes of them before and maw says she doesn’t like the look of ‘em if you get my drift.”

Nisha’s lips tightened around the dogend. She rose from her desk, not bothering with her duster or her badge. All she grabbed was her cigarette lighter, a heavy flint contraption gifted to her by an old comrade. She was a little put off by the fact that she was requested instead of Winger or one of the other boys that hung around town; it was well known that she and Moxxi didn’t get along the best.

“Must be real bad if your ma needs me.”

“She says they’re high-pee-ree-on.” 

Nisha tried her level best to not smirk at Ellie’s pronunciation. It was a challenge, but she managed to keep her face stony. 

“Say no more, kid. I’m on it.”

The sun was just sinking below the horizon. Dust hazed the dipping sun, tinting the air a warm red. Any other time, she would have stopped to take in the view; Nisha loved Lynchwood as though it was her child. She knew every dusty, wood-boarded building, knew every sidestreet, every alley; knew exactly how screwed they were if the mine ever went up in flames. 

Ellie led the way with hurried steps despite the saloon being only a few yards down the street from the sheriff’s office. Nisha flicked her lighter to life, lighting her cigarette as she strolled lazily down the main thoroughfare. The sleeves of her white undershirt were rolled to her elbows, her vest hanging open. To an on-looker she looked as though she was on her way for a drink after a long day policing the town. 

Ellie was nervously bobbing on her feet, the hem of her skirts kicking up clouds of dust with her movement. Nisha gestured for her to move off to the side. She sucked in a breath, slamming the butts of her palms on the swinging wooden doors. The doors swung shut after she strode into the dim barroom, casually tapping ash into the spittoon. The only sound was of the ruckus off in the corner near the playing piano that had been silenced by a harsh blow. 

Cards flew across the room, fluttering to the floor. Fists arched; a few tables had toppled. She surveyed the mess and the mass of squalling bodies. She caught Moxxi’s eye, the bartender looking more irate than anything else. 

Nisha cleared her throat, her hawkish eyes flitting across the guilty parties, who had yet to notice her. “So, which of ya started this here brawl?”

Several of the fights stopped, mid blow. A few of the local boys looked guilty as hell. Nisha caught the eye of an inky haired woman leaning against the bar.

“Would’ve broken it up if Moxxi didn’t insist on calling you.”

The sheriff spared her a single glance and a courteous nod; Athena the soldier. Woman had served in the war, not caring that she was a woman. Moxxi’s faint smirk told her that she was poised to rat Athena out to her partner if she so much as lifted a hand. Nisha didn’t understand women in the least, and decided to keep it that way. 

Nisha ignored them both, stepping toward the group. A ranch hand was holding back a huge, thrashing man with mutton chops, who was all but foaming at the mouth. A miner was holding back a skinny, balding fellow whose eyes grew more vacant as she strolled up to them. By the looks of them they weren’t from Lynchwood; shoes were too shiny, their jackets too well kept, aside from what had been damaged in the brawl. 

“I don’t appreciate you city folk comin’ into my town and raising a ruckus. Now you best be tellin’ me why you’re here, or I’m gonna have my boys run you outta town.”

The thrashing man was still long enough to spit at her, the gob puddling at her foot. Nisha frowned around her cigarette, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“You darkie bitch! We know what you did to--”

Quick as a rattlesnake, she closed in on him, seizing him by the front of his shirt. Up close he had the beady eyes of a pig. She caught sight of the gold stitched H that Ellie had mentioned. Her pulse hadn’t changed as she took a draw on her cigarette, moving it between her forefinger and thumb. She blew out a cloud of smoke as she thrust the burning end of the cigarette into his eye. He howled in a combination of rage and agony, struggling against her vice grip on his shirt front. She released him, watching him sag to his knees clutching his eyes. His partner was deathly pale. He broke free of his captor, clumsily running for the door. Athena was faster, driving her elbow into his rib cage until he sprawled on the floor. The soldier lifted her eyebrow; Jack had put them both through hell. They had a bond forged in fire. 

“Now, I’d reckon it’s best if you go and get. Or you’ll lose more’n your eye. I don’t take kindly to folk like you spreadin’ lies in my town.”

The saloon was deathly silent. The bigger of the two Hyperion goons rose unsteadily to his feet, drawing a blade from his boot. He lunged for Nisha, who sidestepped and drove her elbow into his stomach. He went down like a sack of potatoes, jaw smashing on the wooden floor. Athena took a single step forward, pinning the scrambling man to the ground. Nodding to each other, they both seized the men, dragging them out of the saloon.

As Nisha stepped out the door she heard Moxxi call for a round on the house and caught a dark glare pointed at her retreating back. She had a debt to pay to Moxxi; again. 

The fellow she drug kicked and screamed the entire way to the hitching rail- a meager hundred feet from the bar’s entrance. His partner was still, perhaps cowed by the presence of Athena’s thick forearms. Both were unceremoniously dropped in front of a pair of horses- two rangey looking creatures with beady eyes and fine shoes. The thinner of the two drug his partner to his feet, a sheen of sweat glistening on his bald pate. Athena leaned against the wall of the bar, watching them. Nisha hovered menacingly over them, wishing for another cigarette. 

She watched them retreat, horses galloping toward the edge of town. Athena drew her pistol, sighting both riders. The woman was a crack shot even at a distance; Nisha wasn’t sure how much of it was skill and how much of it was modifications made by her partner, the town blacksmith. 

“I’ll take care of ‘em; horses’re spooked, but I’m sure one of the ranchers will be thrilled to have a new horse.”

Tension crept along the back of Nisha’s neck and jaw. Her fist curled of its own accord. Athena gave her a heavy slap on the back, one hard enough to make her cough.

“You’re not the first sheriff to have men killed, Nisha. Sure as hell won’t be the last. The previous sheriff did a hell of a lot worse from what I heard.”

“I just.. Don’t want to end up like him.”

The first desert stars had started peeking out of the twilight sky. The air was growing chilly, much like her heart at the prospect of the boon she owed. Two men dead because of her, two men who the keener eyed at the saloon would recognize the emblem they bore.   
Athena cleared her throat. “I doubt it; I’ll kill ya long before you do.”

Nisha patted her pockets, finding that she had left her cigarette case in her vest pocket after all. She slipped it open and drew a single tightly rolled dog end from the case, setting it between her lips. She didn’t bother to light it as she stood in the quiet night air, watching as the sky became inky. She had no doubt Athena would kill her if she ever got too bad. It scared her a little. But she was grateful, nonetheless. 

“I owe you, Athena.”

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me. You gave Janey and I a place to stay after Hollow Point caved in. I owe you a hell of a lot more.”

Nisha grunted in response, settling for lighting her cigarette. She sucked in a harsh breath, watching her old friend walk off. She stood outside of Moxxi’s until her cigarette was down to mere embers. Lanterns were burning in a few windows; she knew Winger would have hers blazing. 

She pushed herself away from the wall, the sounds of laughter and music fading in the background. It was another night she would drink herself to sleep. The whiskey decanter was getting close to dry; too many long nights drinking away her sorrows and her guilt. Try as she might, liquor did nothing to drown her demons.


	3. Hair of the Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the only chapter of this fic not named for a Western-themed song. The plot should start picking up soon.

Her head may as well have been stuffed with old cotton buds long off the bush. No matter how much coffee she drank, the foul taste of old whiskey clung to her tongue. Her head thundered like hooves in a stampede. Her bleary eyes, half-shut from the harsh sunlight streaming in the window, traced the idle path of a tumbleweed as it rolled down the main strip. Lynchwood was quiet, not usual for a Sunday. And for once, she was thankful there was no work for her. 

Nisha slid forward in her spindly wooden chair, burrowing her fingers deep into her inky locks. The butt of her palms dug into eye sockets as though blotting out sight would clear the throbbing pain and the lingering nightmares that had disrupted her slumber. The dream resurfaced every few weeks, growing more grotesque with each visitation until she was left with a trail of bodies in her wake. Her sheriff’s badge would tarnish before her eyes, the metal dulling until a single bullet tore through it as though it were tissue paper.

Her jaw tightened at the thought. She forced down a single cool glass of well water, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to drown out the light streaming into the window. She rose on unsteady feet, dragging her chair further into the office, behind a single dresser they used to keep town records-- back behind Winger’s desk. The deputy wouldn’t mind in the least; he was out on patrol, likely shooting the breeze with Timothy-- and not realizing why Jack was being so friendly with him. The man wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, if she were to voice her concerns about him. 

The weathered wood of her chair creaked as she leaned back, letting her head brush the papered wall. The dull shadows offered some relief from the blistering heat that drove her to just her shirtsleeves. She felt naked as all hell without her vest and duster, but her pride drew its limits to someone finding her passed out after retching her guts out into the spittoon. Leaned back, the pressure was lifted from her head, dulling the roar in her skull. She drowsed in the mid-afternoon heat, eyelids growing heavy. 

_[Should killed ya like yer good fer nothin’ sister. Your daddy done gone--]_

Her eyes snapped open, her chest constricting until her breath was a single harsh gasp. Bile and whatever was leftover in her gut burned her throat; she forced it back, grimacing. 

_Shit._

Her nails dug furrows in her scalp as she tried to catch her breath. There was a prickle to the corners of her eyes, which only served to reawaken the beast of shame. Each second felt like a lifetime. Her chest slowly loosened until she managed a full breath. She drank to forget, that much was obvious, but there were things she felt were best to keep locked away in the darker recesses of her psyche; secrets that she would take to her grave and beyond if she could. She rubbed the bridge of her nose as though that would drive away the shame and the guilt. 

The door to her office swung open, smashing against the wall. Nisha flinched, lips pulling into a grimace. Her pulse throbbed in her temples, the pain renewed by the commotion. Her stomach roiled, twisting against itself at the sight of the intruder. 

“Aw, hell, Miss Scarlett ain’t you’ve got anythin’--”

“It’s Miss Fawkes, actually.”

Nisha stopped mid-remonstration, brow furrowing. She sneered at the redhead, barely poking her head out around her makeshift shelter. 

“Speaking of, aren’t you going to actually tell me your name? It’s rather rude that you know mine and I--”

Nisha craned her head forward, looking to the street. Even the tumbleweed had vanished; she was convinced that Scarlett had the lion’s share of good luck in the town. Either that or she had already burned through her own allotted luck for a lifetime. 

“It’s Kadam. Nisha Kadam.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

She grunted in response, tracing the rim of her glass with her index finger. It didn’t whistle like the crystal glasses back on Hyperion turf, but it was certainly clean enough. Nisha briefly considered eating the barrel of her own gun instead of dealing with Scarlett’s pestering-- though at least this time she didn’t get the obnoxious lurch in her nethers at the sight of the tall, slim woman. That was becoming a real problem that she made a note to fix when her head was clearer. 

“Now, the hell do you want?”

“Thought I’d check on you, I heard there was quite a ruckus.”

Nisha spared her a brief glance. That weird little lurch was back again. She swore softly. 

“Just a pair o’ drunk city boys lookin for trouble. By the time I got there ol’ Athena was knockin’ their heads together.”

The way her thin brow was arched over her sole seafoam eye spoke volumes of how little she believed Nisha. 

_God, she really chaps my ass._

“Mhmmm, is that so?”

Nisha rose from her chair, gaze flicking over to her duster, still draped over the coat rack. Mrs. Winger had insisted on the hideous thing. She sidled across the room, snatching up her jacket and hat, cocking her head to the door.

“How’s about I escort you home, Miss Fawkes?”

“Feeling a tad anxious, are we?”

“Nah, I’ve been sittin’ on my ass too long. I didn’t sign up to be sheriff so I could sit on my ass all day.”

Nisha knew the instant the words left her lips that Scarlett’s eye would have been focused on her ass. She ignored it, slinging her duster over her thin shoulders. She still had half a mind to punch the woman-- the other half begged to slam her against the wall and kiss her. She ignored both, favoring the brief walk to the edge of town where she could be rid of the nuisance. Though if pressed, she would admit it was better than brooding on her nightmares. For just a moment it felt as though the invisible noose around her neck had loosened. 

\--

Athena fell in step with her not far outside of Scarlett’s place. A smug smirk twisted her full lips. Another person for Nisha’s to-punch list. 

“I see you’re keepin’ yourself busy. Didn’t figure you were a skirt chaser.”

Nisha grunted in reply, jamming her hands deeper into her pockets. The headache had dulled to an occasional throb. She let her gaze remain on the rutted red dirt road that ran through town. A quick glance behind her, back to the rather excessive house that Scarlett called home, and then back to the town, slightly hazy from midday heat. She ran a few mental calculations, knowing the start of the road to the county’s heart wasn’t too far from Scarlett’s house-- visible to the naked eye on a clear day. She had to hand it to the woman; she had the perfect spot to be nosey from. 

“I prefer ‘em handsome.”

“Well, she’s a handsome woman. Last time I checked you didn’t complain when we--”

“Yeah, but those days are gone, Athena.”

Athena snorted. She hooked her thumbs into her belt loops, lips drawing into a grim slash. They walked together at a slow amble, kicking up dirt as they went.

“You don’t miss ‘em, do you, Nish?”

“I’d miss a hole in my head worse, I reckon.”

They lingered on the town’s edge, where the wind whipped up the dust into mini cyclones. If she squinted hard enough, Nisha could just see the Sheriff’s office and her abode. Athena’s place was on the other end of town; closer to the mine and the coal. 

“Have any trouble with them bodies?”

“Naw, there’s a gulch none too far from here. Offa that trail you tell folks to stay off of.”

“The wagonbuster?”

Athena nodded. Nisha fingered the edge of her badge, watching the copper glisten in the sunlight. Part of her wanted to tear it off and lob it into the center of town, but that part of her seldom got its hackles risen. 

“Athena, you ever get tired of buryin’ your past?”

“Every damn day.”

Nisha’s throat was parched. She saw shadows of a hand raised to strike her when she blinked; heard the angry screech of her mother’s voice in the cry of the hawks circling overhead. 

“Some of the things we’ve seen aren’t gonna leave us. We’ll be bearin’ these crosses until they string us up by ropes.”

“Guess that’s the fate ol’ war dogs like us have comin’ for us, huh?”

“Rather the noose than my own hand. Noose meant I actually fought for somethin’ before I went out.”

Nisha risked a glance at Athena’s cobalt blue eyes. There was definitely a fierce spirit behind them, but some kind of reservation-- perhaps hesitation or perhaps it was that ol’ Athena had finally gone soft, not entirely, but soft enough. 

“Then here’s hopin’ it’s a damn good show when we go out, my friend.”

“One can only hope. Take care, Nisha. And try to lay off the hooch, huh? You reek of it.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Athena’s hearty laugh echoed in the quiet town. A single blow from her solid hand almost sent Nisha sprawling. They parted ways at the door to the Sheriff’s office, leaving Nisha alone with her thoughts and her demons once again.


	4. Blood On My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long delay I'm back. Progress is likely to remain slow as I have five other writing projects going.

Sleepless nights had a way of adding up in her experience. Once the nightmares crept in, they liked to linger like spirit sweats from a long night of drinking. For the fifth night in a row, Nisha lay awake in her feather bed, nightshirt unbuttoned and her skin clammy with sweat. A stray tear rolled down her cheek. Her breath shuddered, jaw tightening as though that would chase away the pain. It wouldn’t work; it never did. Even in childhood where tensing her jaw was the easiest way to brace herself against the blows. The dreams wouldn’t go away, they were an old scar on her psyche deeper than any physical scar on her skin. 

The pounding, oozy hangover feeling crept over her again, making her scalp crawl. Voices she swore she forgot still echoed in her head, playing out in ghostly time. She wanted to scream, but her voice was gone, locked in her chest that felt full of lead. Teeth gritted she thrashed, trying to jerk herself out of the paralysis seizing her trim frame. Some nights control came back easily, the others, the dreams won. On those nights, which she feared she was headed, she would hear her voice but in the higher pitch of childhood pleading for her mother to stop. 

At last the fit broke and she was able to take a lungful of air. She wheezed, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She never cried in her waking life, those tears having dried up the day her sister died at their mother’s hand. She had none left when her father took his own life a few months later, driven by guilt and shame. Only she had survived. Survival that came at the cost of taking her mother’s shotgun and aiming it at her. 

Laying there, still struggling to catch her breath, she could picture the sickly grin on her mother’s face as she pulled the trigger. Those lingering last words that haunted her nightmares ten years later: “Knew you had it in you.” 

Nisha trembled under the thin cotton sheet. Her chest heaved with effort, her nightshirt thoroughly soaked with sweat. A thin whimper was the only sound she managed, making her glad that she was alone. Making her glad that since she pulled the trigger on Jack she was always alone. It wouldn’t do to have anyone see through the veneer of the tough sheriff to see the frightened young woman who used her anger as a weapon.

Maybe she had loved Jack at one point, love as much as she was capable of. But all bets were off when she had stumbled on his daughter. The thought of Angel was the only thing that seemed to quell the worst of the shakes, warded off the pain. The girl needed her, that much was true. But she’d never have the courage to tell her that she was the only reason why she didn’t wind up eating her own bullet. She owed that much to the kid, to do a better job than… Than either of their parents. 

Nisha draped her arm over her eyes. She blew out a slow breath, listening to the still night air in hopes that the town clock would chime soon. Peeling her arm away from her face, she surveyed her living space. Shadows were still richly painted over the scant furniture. The sole window facing the town was still dark, no hint of grey on the horizon. Sleep evaded her.   
Grumbling, she threw back her careworn quilt, or at least the little of it that remained in place. She shoved the sheet aside as she swung her legs out over the floor. She stretched out her hand, fingers closing on the handle of her lantern immediately. She drew it to her lap, setting it down before reaching for her matches. She kept the lamp dim as she rose from her bed, lest a town prowler catch sight of her silhouette after hours. 

Nisha reached down to the hem of her nightshirt, tugging it up over her head and tossing it to the floor. She poured water from her pitcher into a cracked porcelain basin that resided on top of her equally battered dresser. She kicked the nightshirt aside, nose curling in disgust at its dampness. With a soft curse, she grabbed her sponge and started cleaning up the worst of her sweat. The water was lukewarm, but was a welcome change from the clamminess of her skin. 

She sneered at herself in her cracked mirror as she dabbed her collarbone. 

_Not ladylike my ass._

The water in the basin ran an ugly yellow gray. She wrung her sponge out, grimacing as she placed it back on a plate. She didn’t bother replacing her nightshirt, instead crouching in front of her dresser buck naked. Her breath caught in her chest as her fingers traced along the bottom of the left front drawer. Her nails caught in a small gap, which she used to pry up the fake bottom. There wasn’t much stored within its confines. A wad of dollar bills from the East, a few IOUs, a spare pack of cigarettes, a small cache of bullets, and a bottle of laudanum. She snatched the bottle, gingerly running her finger over the label. 

The false bottom of the drawer snapped back into place without her hand to hold it open. She shoved the drawer shut. The bottle had come from Jack’s place, the potent brew being what he used to keep his baby girl in line, lest he lose her genius to the whims of girlhood. Nisha hated the bottle with a fierce passion, but the sleepless nights had become too numerous. 

The rubber bulb burbled as it was squeezed. The brew resembled a good, strong cup of coffee. She braced herself for the bitter assault on her tongue. Three drops. That’s all she would risk. Three drops in desperate hope for a full night’s sleep without dreams. She left the bottle on top of her dresser, no longer caring if anyone saw it-- not like anyone ever entered her room anyway. 

Grogginess was already kicking in. She fumbled with the dial for her lamp, struggling to dampen the flame. It came as a shock to her when she was plunged into complete darkness. It took her a few tries to set the lamp down. Nisha sank down into her bed, too tired to care about the damp sheets and the stink of sweat on her pillow. For the first time that week her sleep was dreamless.


End file.
